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“Grandma. Is Mr. Mullarky still alive?”

“No, dear. Mr. Mullarky died years ago. I think they said he had a heart attack. Something like that. Poor man.”

“What about the photo shop? Is that gone too?”

“No, the photo shop is still there. There is an art supply store in there now too. But the place is run by someone else. Someone from another country. I can’t remember which one.” Grandma strained to remember, her eyes turned up to the ceiling.

“I want to go in and see if I can get these photos developed.” I had pulled the 120 cartridges from the Hasselblad. I wondered about the mystery of the other photographs on the roll since I had only taken the last four or five of them. It was exciting to think about just how many pictures Mom had taken before she died. What had caught her eye? What would be revealed about her that I never knew?

“Grandma, let’s go to town. I’ll buy you some lunch over at Earl’s.”

“Earl’s has gotten expensive. Where did you get money?”

“I save my money, Grandma. Every cent from every job I’ve done over the years.” I stopped when the memory came. “Mom also used to give me ten dollars every time I got an A in school.”

Grandma smiled. “Well, you must have lots of money then.”

WE HEADED OUT into the early sun, me at the wheel of Grandma’s truck. The green and vibrant land that I remembered was now waterless and brittle. Little trailer houses and hogans dotted the landscape from the road to the hillsides. Every now and then I would see wandering groups of sheep move along the road, their pastures reduced to the occasional bush and sprig of sagebrush. This place had changed, and not for the better.

When we pulled into Gallup, I noticed so many new places. There were twice as many buildings, people, and restaurants. There was Chinese food and an Italian restaurant. There were rows of payday loan places and car dealerships. Hundreds of Navajos I didn’t know were walking and driving on the potholed streets. Dozens of withered Indians held out dollar bills on the roadsides for anyone who would pull over and drive them home.

It was the first of the month, so everyone was in town, spending their grandma’s social security checks. I knew that Grandma got money too, but I didn’t want her to spend a dime of it. I wanted to take care of her. I wanted to stay with her for the rest of my days and make sure she never had to suffer any of the indignities I saw in town. As I stopped at a red light, I looked over at her, sleeping against the window. Her face was soft and flawless, her breath steady. Her hands, as always, were folded in her lap. I pulled up to the Mullarky building and turned off the engine. Grandma woke. She pressed at her hair and looked out the window.

“Are we here?” She was already opening the door.

I walked around to help her as she slowly moved her feet to the ground. I reached out to steady her.

“I’m fine.” She pushed my arm when I offered it to her. Always the independent one.

THE BUILDING WAS just as I remembered it, except that the new owners had an entire section set aside to make way for paper, pencils, paint, and canvases. The wall of film rolls had been reduced, but the display cases were still full of shiny, new cameras that I probably couldn’t afford. All the pictures of Navajos on the walls remained.

“Can I help you?” A young East Indian man came out from a curtain behind the counter. He was slight, with narrow shoulders and large, deep-set eyes. He carried a sandwich wrapped haphazardly in paper towels and foil.

“Yes. I was hoping that you might be able to develop this roll of film for me.” I handed him the roll wrapped in a handkerchief.

“Wow! A roll of 120. I haven’t seen one of these since I lived in Los Angeles. Do you live around here?”

“Yes. I live on the reservation with my grandmother.” I looked her way and saw her staring at the photographs on the wall. She adjusted her glasses, straining to see.

“And you have a Hasselblad? Can I see it?”

“I left it at home.” I wouldn’t have shown him anyway.

“Well, this roll might take me an hour or so.” He bit into his sandwich.

“Okay. But please be careful with it. It’s important to me—I really can’t have anything happen to it.”

“No problem.” He pointed to a sign above the register that read, WE CARE ABOUT YOUR MEMORIES.

“Good,” I said. “I hope that’s true.”

GRANDMA AND I went to Earl’s and sat at her favorite corner booth so that she could people-watch. The place hadn’t changed much, although it had expanded its western wall. Navajos still visited the tables, selling their jewelry and pottery to all the customers. Grandma always wanted to buy everything. This day was no different. An older woman came up to us first, holding a velvet board with dangling silver and turquoise earrings on its surface. She had a beautiful smile and knotted, overworked hands.

“I want to buy that first pair.” Grandma pointed to oval-shaped turquoise stones in silver bezels.

“Fifteen dollars,” the woman said.

Grandma handed her a twenty and told her to keep the change. The woman smiled deeply and shook Grandma’s hand. When the woman stepped away, Grandma shook her head. “Fifteen dollars wasn’t enough. She probably worked on that a long time. Now, put these on.” I pushed the silver through the empty holes in my ears and felt the jewelry swing on my neck. “So pretty,” Grandma said.